FICTION.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1198, 15 February 1895, Page 8

FICTION.

“ A LOST WIFE,”

BY MRS LOVETT CAMERON, AUTHOR OF ‘IN A GRASS COUNTRY, 5 * A DEVOUT LOVER, 5 * DECEIVERS EVER, 5 ‘ THIS WICKED WORLD,’ &C., &C.

■ /ContinuedJ CHAPTER XI. .MY'MUDDY, BOOTS. „ ‘Morn, Wak’d by, thej3ir.cling*b6iirs, with rosy hand Unbarr’d the gates of light.’ —Milton. How pleasant it is to be out at eight o’clock in -the - morning ! Birds were twittering in the trees ; the fresh breeze fluttered keen and sweet about us as we walked; the labourers at their work looked' up as we passed and wished us good- day; the' children at their early rambles among the mushroom meadows shouted gaily to each'other as we went by—everything and everybody seemed glad to be awake to another day. Mark and I qaught the general infection, and stepped along briskly side by side.' It was. very wrong—l had no business to be tramping along the lanes at eight o’clock in the morning with a young man, whilst my father and my affianced husband were snoring in their beds; 'it was wrong, decidedly—but it was pleasant exceedingly. At first I felt somewhat shy and nervous, but Captain Thistleby’s manner soon put me completely at my ease. Everytrace of that dangerously sentimental mood in which he had been the evening before had vanished—he was simply pleasantly and chattily . agreeable. Every word of our conversation might have been, so to apeak, posted at Charing Cross with perfect propriety. I think he fancied he had spoken too plainly to me last night arid was afraid of frightening me. For some.time he carefully shunned all dangerous topics. But after a while he asked me questions about- my home life and daily occupations ; smiled over my descriptions of the peculiarities of' Messrs Macdonald and Heywood, and looked rather grave over my half-depreeating allusions to George Curtis. Then suddenly he said — ‘ Do you 1 know what brought me down to this neighbourhood ?’ ‘ Mrs Featherstone, 5 1 answered, promptly and demurely.,

He looked at me from beneath his dark lashes, and;laughed. . ‘ What makes you say that ?’■ ‘ You .kriew; she was staying here, I suppose. Do you'know that she calls you Pet ?’ ‘ How kind of her ! Do you ?’ l I ?—gracious heavens, no!’ I cried, blush ing hotly. ‘I wish you would.. I used to be called so sometimes in the regiment. lam sure I don’t know what got me such a pretty name. Do you tbinkit suits me?’. ‘ Not at all,’ I reply, with frank sincerity. Mark flings back handsome head and laughs again. How gloriously handsome he looks with the morning sunshine in his eyes, lighting them up froin cool, shadowy hazel into warm, ruddy, chestnut. ‘Don’t stare so hard, i Miss Clifford, you make me feel shy, 5 says my tormentor, suddenly. (I have already mentioned that staring is my besetting sin.) ‘Ahl I am glad I have made you blush. There, it’s a shame to tease you! You have not yet given me a proper answer to my first question. 5 ‘ What was that ?’ * What you imagine to be the cause of my visit here? 5

‘I told you one palpable reason. I could find a dozen more. The most obvious would be the Ist of September, in connection with Lord Holt’s partridge shooting; or possibly Lady Margaret was the attraction, or ’ ‘ Or any other old woman !’ he said, laugh-, ing; and then,, with a sudden gravity, he added: ‘I had read your letter to Bella.’ ‘ Very rude of you,’ I said, lightly, but with my heart beating Wildly... * ‘I wanted to see for, myself —how it was with you.’ , • .. . I was silent. Though I loyed him, there was something like indignation in my heart against .him. What had he to say to me? Why did he not' speak openly, or else not speak at all ? ‘Are you happy, Freda?’ he said, softly, bending down to look into my face —just as, I swiftly remembered, he had bent down last night to look into Clara Featherstone’s. The recollection la3hed me into fury. ‘ Perfectly, thank you,’ I replied, with my face set cold and hard. ' - '

He drew himself up stiffly, y ‘ In that case, I have nothing more to say.’ ‘That is lucky, as you have.also no more time to say it in. See, we are caught like a couple of naughty children !’ We were close to. the house again, and a turn of the path brought, us suddenly face to face with Mrs Featherstone and Mr Macdonald.

‘ We have been for a stroll in the shrubbery whilst waiting for you lazy people to come down to breakfast!’ says Mark, almost before we had all shaken hands, forgetting the old adage, Qui s'excuse, s’accuse !„ ‘lndeed! how very muddy the shrubbery walks must be, judging from the state of Miss Clifford’s boots.’ General attention was thus called to my feet, which, indeed, bore undeniable traces of our tramp through the narrow lanes. I could not help laughing at Mrs Featherstone’s sharpness in finding us out, especially as Captain Thistleby improved matters .by looking hopelessly confused. ‘ I am afraid my boots got muddy in the lane,’ I said, good temperedly, thinking it best to put a bold face on a bad business. ‘ I think I had better go in and change them.’ ‘ How extraordinarily free and easy the manners of the girls of the present day are ! moralised Mrs Featherstone, with virtuous contempt. And so evidently was the remark meant for me to hear as I leave them that I looked back and retorted, laughingly — ‘ You see, we take example by the married women.’ > , , „ . , Which defiant remark brought a fine tragedy scowl promptly into her beetling brows. Breakfast after that was a painful ordeal. Mark Thistleby, who was a moral coward as, indeed, most men are, especially with regard to women —had placed himself next to Mrs Featherstone, and was apparently exerting himself to the uttermost to restore himself to her good graces —a servility which absolutely enraged me. Mrs Leith was trying her hand upon Mr Macdonald, who had evidently related my little misadventure to her delighted ears. Perhaps he meant to pay me out for having snubbed him on our first acquaintance. Mrs Leith was delighted; she kept looking across the table, with an expression, partly horror, partly awe-stricken respect, at the girl who could so far dare to defy fate and

decorum as to venture out for a walk before breakfast with Mrs Featherstone 5 s prime favourite. ‘ It really was very plucky of her,’ I heard her say; ‘ but she ought to have covered her retreat better. Clara will never forgive her. 5 I was seated between Mr Featherstone and my future owner, the master of the house. It was not a position that I should have coveted, but the wheel of Fate has a habitrof trundling everybody into the wrong places at breakfast time.

George Curtis hoped I was not very tired after last night’s dissipation, and that I had enjoyed myself, and added kindly that I looked very nice and that many people admired me. Dear old George ! if only you were my uncle, or my grandfather, or my cousin’s husband, or anything, in short, save what you were to me, how easily I could have learned to love you ! Mr Featherstone looked up from behind the Sportsman to remark to me with solemnity that the odds were 7 to 4 on Highlander. ‘ You had better take my tip, Miss Clifford —to-morrow it will be too late,’ ho added, with the air of an archangel pronouncing the doom of a sinner.

‘ But I really don’t understand what the odds” mean,’ I replied, laughing. And Mr Featherstone returned to his sporting paper with a heavy sigh. Upon which Charley Flower leant forward and tried to entice me into a tender conversation across the table, to which publicity I decidedly objected. Breakfast was over at length, and in the general move from the table Mark came to my side.

‘ You had better not speak to me,’ I said, viciously, in a low voice. Mrs Featherstone does not approve of it.’ ‘ Mrs Featherstone is one of those women who never do approve of one’s speaking to anyone but herself.’ ‘ I wonder you venture to incur her disapproval, then.’ Captain Thistleby laughed softly below his breath.

‘ Don’t be spiteful, Freda I beg your pardon,’ catching a look in my face, ‘I never can help calling you by your Christian name —I have heard it so often from Bella, you know, it comes natural to me ; I always think of you as Freda.’ The little confession mollifies me; it is sweet to know that he does think of me.

‘ I shall not see you again,’ he continued. ‘ We are just going off ; and as my things are to be sent to Chadley, I shall not come back here. How much longer do you stay at Eddington p’ ‘ Till Saturday.’ ‘ Till Saturday? Then you go home, I suppose ?’ ‘Yes.’

‘Well, good-bye, then.’ I touched his hand mechanically, without answering. I said to myself, in my anger, that if he had cared one iota for me lie would have given up his day’s'shooting and have stopped at home to see more of me. $ Very soon afterwards, we three women from the wide stone terrace speeded the shooting men off on their day’s amusement. Mr Macdonald was Wonderfully and fearfully accoutred with every variety of strap, belt and pouch, and with a valet to carry every available luxury in his wake ; and yet it was whispered that it was but seldom that he had the good luck to hit anything. Major Heywood and Mr Flower, whose outer man was less formidably got up, were good shots, and made up the bag between thorn. ‘ I wish I wasn’t going—l wish I could stop at home with you,’ whispers Charley Flower, sentimentally ; which, of course, is a fib. ‘ Why don’t you, then ?’ ‘lf it wasn’t for those women, I would,’ he answers, with a fine generosity which amuses me.

Men take so very naturally to the grand Turk manner of dispensing their smiles to the attendant female population. ‘You have forgotten “those other men” you would also find left at home with me, my father and —Mr Curtis.’ Charley reddened up to the roots of his curly, fair hair. ‘ You shouldn’t take pleasure in reminding a poor wretch of his misery,’ he said, dolefully—at which I only laughed pitilessly. I knew by instinct —what woman does not know these things ? —that ‘ young Flower, of the Blues,’ as Mrs Featherstone called him, had fallen desperately !n love with me, and yet I felt no more pity for him than if he were a captured mouse or an impaled beetle. I was eating out my heart in wretched longing for the man I loved, but I was in no way softened by adversity into pity for the man who loved me. At this moment he is whispering something else, very tender and very despairing, into my ear, of which I hear not one single word, for I am straining every nerve to catch what Mark Thistleby and Mrs Featherstone are saying in farewoll to each other. She leaus against the open doorway, in a faultless costume of dark green velvet, and he stands close to her whilst she makes a feint of altering the buckle of his cartridgebag. A wild passion of maddest jealousy scorches me like a living flame as I watch her fingers brush lightly against his" rough tweed shooting-coat and rest for one instant caressingly on his arm. ‘ I must come and see you in town,’ I heard him say. ‘ I have hardly had a word with you here.’ ‘ "Why did you go off with that girl this morning, then ?’ ‘ How could I help it!’ lightly shrugging his shoulders. ‘ I had nothing else to do ; you were not down.’

And then they shake hands, and Mark wishes ‘good-bye’ to the rest of the company, thanking Mr Curtis for his hospitality and paying Mrs Leith a little compliment upon her fresh morning toilette; and lastly he comes to me, and holds out his hand without a word.

He looks at me wistfully, hungrily, with all his soul in his eyes. Is he false or is he true ? —this man who can make love-speeches to two women at once, whose words say one thing and whose looks another !

They had gone, and we women and old men went back into the house.

‘ I must go and see after my maid, and tell her to pack up,’ said Mrs Leith, who was to leave in the afternoon. She Avent upstairs, and Mrs Featherstone and I were left alone.

‘ Freda, do you mind my asking you a question ?’

‘ A dozen, if you like,’ I answered, listlessly. ‘Do you really intend to marry my brother r’

‘ Certainly I do !’ I answered, looking up at her in surprise.

‘ Then, if I were you, I would not flirt quite so openly withother men. It is a very bad

compliment to pay to George, and I am quite sure he would not like it.’ ‘ Has he asked you to speak to me ?’ ‘ No ; but ’ The library door opened, and George Curtis, with his spectacles pushed up on his forehead, shuffled across the hall towards the dining-room. ’ Come here, Mr Curtis,’ I called out, sharply., . ‘ Going out, my dears ?’ he said, blandly, looking at us with a smile on his kind old face. ‘ What is it, my love ?’

‘ Your sister is accusing me of flirting. 5 He looked with such bewildered amazement from one of us to the other, that I could hardly help laughing, for all my anger. ‘ Freda’s manners are rather too free,’ said Mrs Featherstone, not without some hesitation: I was only giving her a little friendly advice ; she need not be so angry about it. I was telling- her I do not think you would like your wife to flirt with every man she meets.’ ‘ I should like my wife to amuse herself in any way she pleases, Clara. I trust her too entirely to interfere with her, for I know perfectly that she will never compromise her own dignity nor mine.’ How infinitely guilty I felt at that generous speech ! How good this man was, and how unworthy...l. was of his affection! —knowing, as I did too well, how little my heart belonged to him.

I turned round to him in a sudden passion of penitence and gratitude. * ‘ George—George !’ I cried, catching hold of his hand, ‘ you are too good, too generous! I am not fit to be your wife. Release me from my engagement. I had rather be your friend ; I don’t want to marry you.’ Mrs Featherstone’s face was a study. She evidently thought that I had taken leave of my senses. That any woman should be in a fair Way of-becoming the mistress of Eddington, and yet make a deliberate effort to retire from that much-to-be-coveted position, was in her eyes little short of qualifying oneself for a commission of lunacy. George Curtis looked infinitely distressed. ‘ My dear, pray don’t say such things—after everything is settled, too. lam sure that if Clara has said any little thing that vexes you, she is very sorry to have done so. Pray dry your tears, my dear Freda, and do not distress me by such words again.’ He held my hand kindly in one of his and patted my shoulder soothingly with the other. I think, had I been alone with him, I should have thrown myself then and there at his feet and told him plainly that I could not be his, wife, because I had learnt to love another man ; but my enemy stood opposite mo, cold, erect and scornful, with a mocking sneer upon her dark, handsome face. I could no more have confessed my weakness than have put a knife to my throat. In another instant papa had entered upon the scene, and my opportunity was gone. ‘ Come and talk to this foolish girl, Henry. She fancies she is not good enough to be riiy wife.’

‘ Freda—Freda ! what does all this mean. ?’ said papa, with mild reproach. ‘ It is, indeed, an honour for a young girl to bo chosen by a man of so much learning and talent. Ido not wonder at the natural humility which prompts you to shrink from a position to which you are so ill-fitted ; but our good friend is too generous not to make allowances for your youth and inexperience.’ ‘ Yes, indeed, my love, I wish to make every allowance for you. Your youth entitles you to every consideration. 5 ‘ And you must remember, Freda, how materially, by your obedience and submission to our wishes, you are furthering our great and valuable labours. 5

They stood one on each side of me as they uttered their little cut-and-dried platitudes, whilst Mrs Featherstone, leaning against the mantel-piece, looked at us all with a scornful smile. In what sort of estimation, T Avonder,.did those two short-sighted old men hold that most ‘ holy state of matrimony,’ which is not, we are told, to be ‘ taken in hand unadvisedly or lightly ’ ? and in Avhat infinitesimal account, in comparison with their dead and dusty folios, did they reckon a living human heart with its passions and affections P _ ‘ A very pretty piece of acting indeed !’ said Mrs Featherstone as she swept by mo up the staircase Avhen her brother and papa had left us. ‘ A very nicely-acted little scene, Miss Clifford, which has quite ansAvered its purpose ! I congratulate you !’

CHAPTER XII. A STRANGE VISITOR. ‘ Forebodings come ; we know not how, or Avhence, Shadowing a nameless fear upon the soul, And stirs Avithin oqr hearts a subtler sense Than light may read or Avisdom may control.’ —A. A. Procter. I was not sorry to be at home again. The party at Eddington had dispersed; Mrs Leith had gone to Yorkshire, Mrs Featherstone to Sussex, and her husband to Newmarket; Avhilst Messrs Macdonald, Flo Aver and Heywood had separated each on their several ways to 4 seek fresh fields and pastures new.’ Presumably, Captain Thistleby had also left the'country. I heard incidentally that the party a.t Chadley had. broken up, and it was vain to suppose that he had not taken his departure with the rest. In the course of the week the supposition was confirmed beyond a possibility of doubt. One day the yellow family chariot, which was to Lady Holt what a mitre is to a bishop, or a wig to the Lord Chancellor —a sort of insignia of office, to be assumed on all solemn and State occasions—droAv up with a flourish before the loAvly ivy-sheltered gate of the Slopperton cottage. Thence descended her ladyship the Countess of Holt, followed by Lady Margaret. They filled up the narrow doorway and the small flagged hall with their ample proportions and their pompous condescension, . ‘ Now that you are about to be married to Mr Curtis of. Eddington, I have thought.it appropriate to come and call upon you, Miss Clifford,’ said Lady Holt, with a naive admission of Mammon-Avorship which amused me.

‘ Your ladyship is very good,’ I answered, Avith decorous humility. Lady Holt has sat just bohind me in Slopperton church for many years, but has never done me the honour of a visit before. I am not one whit cleverer, nor better, nor handsomer, nor more of a lady than I have ever been. I am simply going to be rich ! For so abject are the Avorshippers of gold, that they cannot await its actual presence, they must be up and stirring early to Avelcome its first indications. The coming money-bags cast their goodly shadows before them. To have called upon Freda Clifford, the daughter of a poor man, Avhose learning was undoubted, and avliO was a gentleman in overy sense of the Avord, would have been unfitting to Lady Holt’s high position and name; but to visit the same Freda Clifford, owner-

presumptive of ten thousand a year, was, as her ladyship most candidly remarked, ‘ appropriate.’ We are apprised in this generation not for what we are, but for what we have. What a poor compliment to our self-esteem, could we but look at it in that light! Having made the above gracious little opening remark, Lady Holt proceeded to put me through a series of cross-questionings relating to my intentions with regard to future entertainments at Eddington; whilst her daughter, raising a gold eye-glass to her eye, amused herself by taking stock of her surroundings, and made a minute inspection of the whole room, beginning with the topmost shelf of dingy brown books, down to the thread-bare drugget beneath her feet. Had she belonged to my own rank of life I should have called her singularly bad-mannered and ill-bred, but I suppose that an Earl’s daughter is not to be judged according to the standard of ordinary mortals. ‘ I hope you will come over and lunch with us one day, Miss Clifford,’ said Lady Holt, when her ten minutes’ visit was over, as she rose to go. 4 We are quite alone now; all our guests have left us, and we shall be delighted to see you and Mr Clifford, if you will come over any day at 2 o’clock.’

So that was how I came to know for certain that Mark Thistleby had left. Was I glad or was I sorry ? I hardly know. I almost think it was a relief to me to find that he was gone. Yery sadly I began to perceive that Max - k Thistleby had treated me cruelty—that I was nothing to him but a sport, a mere pastime. Some passing caprice, chance, or perhaps, even as I had told him, the vicinity of Mrs Eeatherstone, had brought him down to the neighbourhood of Eddington, where his sole object seemed to have been to disturb my peace of mind, and to raise hopes in mo which he had not the smallest intention of fulfilling. I was angry and indignant with him for doing so. If he did not want me, why, oh ! why had he come to trouble me ? Why had he not let me alone ? Without him I had been, if not happy, at least content. I had all the good things of this world within my grasp, and, truth to say, I did not- desire to give them up. Had he never crossed my path I should have been happy enough. But the memory of the soft caressing voice and the tender words, and of the ardent looks in those deep hazel eyes, had stirred my heart to its very depths. It was a showery morning, about a week after our return from Eddington. Short glimpses of sunshine had made me think of going out, but a succession of heavy storms, which came on every twenty minutes, and which had turned our little garden into a swamp, made all prospect of taking a walk an impossibility.

I had been dictating manuscript to papa till my head ached ; and when at length I could be spared from the wearisome task I escaped with a novel under my arm and took refuge in the dining-room. I curled myself in a deep arm-chair in a window which looked towards the front door, and began to read. The novel was not a very exciting one. After vainly trying to keep my attention to the loves and woes of a singularly beautiful maiden, who seemed to be the most insipid and uninteresting of her sex, I took to thinking instead about my own poor little love story. The novel slipped out of my hands, and I let my thoughts wander idly away to my own concerns and interests.

All at once there came a loud clanging peal at the gate-bell, which startled me out of my profitless dreams. Who on earth could it be at that hour? 4 The butcher, the baker, the candlestickmaker,’ frequented the back door, and visitors would not come on foot at 11 o’clock in the morning in the middle of a downpour of rain. My thoughts flew to Captain Thistleby, and like the fool that Ijwas, my heart beat wildly with the hope that it might be he. I thought old Sarah would never go to the door. At last she came forth from the back premises with her dress turned over her head to shelter it from the straight drenching rain.

She opened the door ; outside I saw a small woman’s figure wrapped in a waterproof cloak.

Down went my heart into my shoes with a thud of sickening disappointment. A mistake, a message, a beggar, I conjectured, rapidly to myself, referring to the female without; but as Sarah still continued her parley at the open doorway with the stranger, I began to feel some sort of curiosity as to who or what she was. All at once Sarah came rapidly back into the house. ‘lt is a strange lady, miss, enquiring her way. Might she come in and wait until the shower is over? she has no umbrella.’ ‘ Certainly, show her into this room,’ I answered, wondering. _ She came in—a tiny woman, wrapped in a dripping dark grey waterproof, the hood drawn closely over her head. ‘ Pray come in and rest, till the shower is over,’ I said, civilly drawing a chair forward for her. ‘ Arid won’t you take off your cloak, and let it be dried at the kitchen fire, whilst you wait?’ She divested herself nimbly of her cloak, and gave it to Sarah, and then slipped off her hat, and looked ruefully at its draggled feather. ‘ It is so stupid that I came away without an umbrella,’ she said. • ‘ Won’t you sit down?’ She stood up for a minute, and surveyed herself in the mirror over the mantel-piece, before accepting the proffered seat. ‘ I look a dreadful object!’ she said, with a faint smile, as she sat down. I looked at her. She had a small sharpfeatured face, and keen black eyes ; her hair was worn in a dusky cloud over her brow, and tied up at the back in a loose knot, almost on the top of her head. Her dress was that of a lady, and was tasteful and well made. Presently she drew off her gloves, almost, I think, with intent that, I might notice, as I immediately did, the wedding-ring upon her left hand.

c I have come down here for the day ; I am going back by the 5 o’clock train,’ she volunteered, seeing that I did not speak. ‘lndeed? You should have taken a fly at Slopperton, there is always one to be had at the “Green Man,” even if thero were none up at the station.’

‘ Oh, I hate flies,’ she said, with an impatient shrug of her shoulders, ‘ Besides, I did not quite know where I wanted to go.’ I looked at her in surprise. ‘ That astonishes you, I daresay,’ she said, gravely; and then with a sudden gleam in her face, she added quickly : ‘ I daresay you can tell mo ; you live here, and are very likely to know.’

‘ What, whore you wanted to go ?’ ‘ No—no, of course not! But whether the person I am looking for lives anywhere in this neighbourhood. I will explain to you.’ She looked up eagerly at me, puckering up

her small white forehead with almost a ludicrous intentness.

4 You know, I picked up an envelope in a cab, and I recognised the handwriting ; tho name was torn off, but the address was 44 Chadley, near Slopperton it hadn’t been through the post. It had first been torn off, as if it had been misdirected.’ 4 Chadley? That is Lord Holt’s place.’ ‘ls it? I daresay; very likely. I had some trouble to find what Slopperton it was; there is one in Lincolnshire. I AA r ent down there first, but nobody had heard of a place called Chadley there.’ She AA'ent on talking in a confiding manner, with little solemn nods of lier frizzy head at me, Avhilst every moment I became more and more bevvildered.

‘ I don’t understand you,’ I said. 4 Why was it necessary to hunt half over England because you found a torn envelope in a cab?’ 4 Don’t you see ? Why, I knew the handwriting. I knew it perfectly, as well as I knew my own. It is the handwriting of the person lam looking for. .Now do you understand ?’

She looked at me sharply, with her head a little on one side, like an enquiring bird. 4 Don’t you understand ?’ she repeated I shook my head. 4 You must be very dense,’ she said, with perfect sangfroid. 4 1 shouldn’t have told you all this, if I had not thought you would help me. If you have lived here some time, surety, you must know if he lives near here'!’4 Who ? You have not yet told me his name. It is a man, then, you are looking for ?’ She nodded.

4 Tell me his name ; if he lives anywhere near here I must have heard of him, for I have been here for years.’

4 His name is Thorne.’ 4 Thorne —Thorne ? I never heard, of such a person!’ She sighed heavily, and looked down at her bony little hands tying in her lap. 4 You must have made some mistake. lam quito sure I never heard of the name in this neighbourhood,’ I said gently, feeling sorry for her. She sighed again. 4 At least you can direct metoChadley?’ she said, sorrowfully. : 1, v 4 Certainty I can : but I tell you that Lord Holt lives there, there is no Mr Thorne there.’ ty 4 He might have been staying there.’ 4 1 think not, I should have heard of him.’ 4 Never mind, I can alwa.ys enquire. See, the shoAver is over ; I think I can got on now. How far off is it ?’ ' t She jumped up with alacrity, and began putting on her cloak again, which had been brought in from being dried "at the kitchen fire. \ 4 Horrid things waterproofs are, aren’t they ?’ she said, as she dreAv the ugly hood down again over her hat. ‘ 4 They are so unbecoming.’ I smiled. 4 Won’t you borroAV an umbrella? You can leave it at the gate as you go by to the station; you must pass it on your way back.’

She did not even take the trouble to thank me for the suggestion. 4 Oh, I can’t tell what I may do —if I were to find him, for instance ! No, I Avon’t borrow an umbrella, it might be in the way.’ 4 As you like.’ She gathered up her skirts and prepared to depart. I wondered if she would express any gratitude for the shelter she had received. At first I thought she was going away without another word, but as she reached the door she turned and put out her hand to me suddenly. 4 It’s not your fault that you couldn’t tell me anything. You would have helped me if you could, I am sure. ’ There Avas a mute pathos in the troubled little face, with its anxious eyes, that touched me strangely. I took the scrap of a: hand that she stretched out to me, and held it in mine.

What strange, sad story, I wondered, was there about this pale, dark-eyed little creature, who looked at me with such a patient, wintry smile ? ‘ I would help you gladly if I could,’ I answered earnestly. _ .< She turned away with a little half-nod and vanished under the ivy-shadowed doorway. ‘Do you think that lady is in her right mind?’ I said, turning to old Sarah, as she came back from closing the gate after her. * Law, miss! whatever makes you think she isn’t ?’ retorted that ancient abigail. ‘ She looks so queer and strange,’ I answered, musingly. More than once during the day I ran out to the door, and stood outside to look down .the high road that led to Cliadley Castle!, to watch for my queer little visitor’s return to Slopperton Station. But if she passed back by our house I must have missed her, for I did not see her again. For days afterwards I thought of her.. I could not get the sad, anxious little face, puckered up into so many weary lines of care and trouble, out of my head. I puzzled out, over and over again, the broken threads of her story, which I had gathered from our one short interview. Alas ! tho truth appeared to me to be plain enough : it was no doubt the old commonplace history of woman’s weakness and man’s faithlessness that is for ever and ever repeating itself. Her childish eagerness to show me the wedding-ring upon her finger told me too plainly that she had no right to wear it. I could not forget her, she haunted mo with a persistency which was almost like a presentiment. It almost seemed to me as if that pale, sad little creature was in some way connected with my own fate, and was to be bound up in a mysterious and incomprehensible manner with my life. I laughed at myself for such fanciful and wild notions, and tried to rid myself of this extraordinary and almost ludicrous delusion. • . I little knew how nearly these forebodings were to be realised, nor how powerful an influence that queer little dark-eyed stranger was destined to wield upon the whole of my future life! ' (To be continued.)